The Good Booth
by fiffifofum
Summary: This is going to be a series of sorts, each chapter will be a different one-shot story, all of which will focus around The Good Booth. Please R & R, I'll give you pie. . .
1. Battle for the Booth

**DISCLAIMER:  I do not own Newsies or anything pertaining to Newsies.**

**Author's note:  This is the first installment in the ongoing saga of The Good Booth.  It is inspired by actual events and it was only after I wrote this that I decided to turn it into a series sort of thing.  There will be several one-chapter stories that will take place at, in, around, near, etc. the good booth.  What exactly is the good booth?  Well, you must read on to answer that question.  And please, leave a review.**

"Runaway carriage causes destruction and wreaks havoc in the market place."  Spot sold a pape, just one.  The headlines had been terrible lately, nothing interesting seemed to be happening in New York lately.  Spot felt as if he'd improved the truth more in the pask week than he had in his whole life.  It was shaping up to be a terrible day.  Not only did he still have about fifty papes left, he was late to meet Jack and Race at Tibby's.  Queens had been giving them some problems lately, nothing major, though, just something that needed to be taken care of before it got serious.  He made his way across the Brooklyn Bridge, leaving his 'kingdom' behind.

Spot made his way down the street to Tibby's.  As he entered the little restaurant the bells on the door jingled, grabbing Jack's attention.

"Hey, Spot! Ovah heah."

            "Hey, Jacky-boy, Race," Spot greeted as he pulled a chair up to the table.  "Damn, I hate dese chairs.  You'se two bums couldn't get da good booth?"

            "Nah," answered Jack as he glanced at said booth.  "Dem suits was sittin in it when we got here."  He indicated the two men and the woman who were occupying the booth.  They had been there for quit some time.  The three boys turned their heads and gazed longingly at the beautiful booth they all wished they were seated at.  It wasn't that the other tables were terrible, they were fine, but next to the booth all other options were dwarfed.  The booth was beautiful; its seats were a dark, deep, crimson, smooth and surprisingly clean.  The table was made of regular old wood but it had been sanded until it was as smooth as silk and had been painted black.  The booth was positioned under some eaves in a dark part of the restaurant, making it more private.  It was ideal and almost always unattainable; the booth was never left empty for long.  Spot, Jack, and Race shook the thoughts from their minds and turned back to each other, and the matter at hand.  

"So Jacky-boy, what's the update on the Queens situation," Spot queried.

            "Nothin much has changed, really, just some of da boys is sellin on Manhattan's turf."

            "Not only that, but they've been roughin up some a da younga boys," added Race as his eyes traveled form face to face among the other people in the restaurant.  His eyes fell on some unsavory characters the newsboys of Manhattan were quite familiar with.  "Deah me," he exclaimed, grabbing Spot's and Jack's, and many others' attention.  "What is that unpleasant aroma?  I feah da sever may have backed up during da night."

            "Dat ain't the sewer," answered Jack, catching on, "Dat's just da Delancey Bruddas."  

            "And deir little friend too," interjected Spot, "Vermin, is it?"  The three boys had a good laugh at the expense of the Delancey brothers and Mr. Weasel, who did absolutely nothing but glare.  Oscar and Morris didn't want to get beaten up like they always did and Weasel was too smart to think he could take on the three who taunted him.  Both parties went back to their own business, but members from each continued to shoot glares back and forth.

            "Anyway," Spot began, "the solution the our liddle problem wit Queens is easy.  All we gotta do is let Bull know dat we ain't gonna stand for his boys sellin on our turf, and if dey don't stop, we'll make em.  Bull may be thickheaded, but he ain't dat stupid.  He doesn't want a war between da burroughs, he could never win and he knows it."  Spot sat back in his chair and cradled his glass in his hand.

            "Alright," said Jack, "sounds good.  Let's go ovah deah tomorrow an—" he cut himself short when the three suits in the booth stood up.  "Hey fellas, looks lik dey're clearing out."  Jack pointed and Spot and Race followed his gesture.  Race smiled.

            "Let's get our stuff together and get ready to grab it."  Race set his silverware on his plate and clutched the plate and his glass in either hand, ready to pounce on the booth the moment the others left.

            "Hold it."  Spot's voice came out in a hushed but commanding whisper.  Jack and Race turned to follow Spot's gaze and their eyes fell on the Delanceys and Weasel.  They too had gathered their food and were staring hungrily at the good booth.  "Dey're goin for it, too.  But deyre not gonna get it.  Not if ise got anyting to do wid it!"  Spot was about to jump and beat the so-called adversaries to a pulp when Race put up a hand to hold him back.  Spot turned and looked at him questioningly.

            "Nevahmind Spot, da two guys sat back down, that booth ain't even open."  Race sighed and gazed longingly at the booth.

            "Damn youse two suits!"  Spot shouted grabbing the attention of both patrons and staff alike, including Tibby, who was becoming annoyed with the antics of the newsboys.  Spot lowered his voice and with a 'damn it' he sat back down.  Never once did his icy blue eyes stray from the booth.

* * * * * * * * 

            "Well, Jonathan, Mr. Pullitzer is going to be paying a pretty penny for this."

            "I concur.  That bastard is so cheap; but we'll make him pay, literally.  Excuse me, waiter?"

            "Yes sir?"  said a young boy in a cute little apron as he crossed to where Jonathan and Seikes were seated in the good booth.

            "We'd like on of everything, please."  Jonathan clasped his hands on the smooth table in front of him.

            "Everything on the menu?!"  The boy's eyes widened at the rather unusual request.

            "Yes, everything on the menu."

            "Well, sir, that could take some time."

            "That's quite all right; we've got plenty of time, and money, to spend."  The waiter then left for the kitchen.  The waiter returned with the food about thirty minutes later and for the next several hours, Jonathan and Seikes feasted at Pullitzer's expense.

* * * * * * * 

            Spot, Jack, and Race had long since finished their food, but had stayed at their table, watching, and waiting.  Sure, they could have left, but Weasel and the Delancey brothers were still there, also watching and also waiting.   There was no way the guys were going to let the good booth be taken over by those assholes.  The duty to protect the honor and majesty of the booth had fallen upon them, and they would fight to fulfill it.

Glares flew back and forth between the two tables.  Manhattan and Brooklyn wore smug expressions on their faces.  It would be easy to beat up their opponents at any time, but they liked watching them sweat.  The so-called foes, though they knew they would be beaten, were too stupid to back down from a fight.

The tension was flying between the two groups and the animosity filled the space between them, becoming tangible as the seconds ticked by on the clock on the wall.

Spot's temper began to rise and he leapt to his feet and crossed to the Delancys and Weasel in what seemed to be one fluid motion.  Jack and Race rose, following and coming to either side of him.

"I soitenly hope youse tree dirty rotten scabbahs don't expect ta be getting ya grimy mits on dat booth ovah deah."  Spot shot daggers toward the grown man and two boys who now faced him head-on.  Jack and Race smirked along with Spot, shooting out glares of their own.

Weasel and the Delanceys cowered under the fierce looks of the boys who had descended upon them so quickly.  None of them responded for what seemed and eon.  Then, unexpectedly, and quite foolishly, Morris Delancey rose from his chair and stared right into Spot's eyes.

"Yeah, wese are, and our mits aint grimy eider."  Spot's smirk only grew and Jack and Race sniggered.  The almighty power of the booth had taken over Morris' already diminished ability to make good choices.  Oscar, not willing to watch his brother go down alone, rose from his seat as well and joined in the face-off.  He tried to bring Weasel up with him, but Weasel was too smart to get involved in this.  He stood, but he just made for the exit, running away like the little baby he was.  Oscar gulped as he stared into the eyes of the boys who stood before him, cracking their knuckles.  Morris' eyes, after realizing what he had done, widened in horror.

Spot threw the first punch, his fist connecting with Morris' jaw in a sickening crack.  After that everything just became a big blur, fists flying and a few cries of pain.  It took a mere matter of minutes for Oscar and Morris to be left in a mess on the floor of Tibby's.  They quickly picked themselves up and ran for the door, their tails hanging between their legs.

Spot, Jack, and Race smirked, knowing that the victory had been easy, but enjoying beating the crap out of the Delancey brothers anyway.  The three turned toward the booth, the booth they had fought to protect.  It was empty; the men had left and the booth was waiting to be claimed.

They turned back to each other and shared a look of satisfaction and anticipation.  They headed for the booth and just as they were within reach of it Tibby himself stepped in their path.

"You boys get OUT!  Causing a disturbance in my reastaraunt and making such a mess, you scared the other customers!  Now GET OUT!"

The boys' jaws dropped.  They gazed at the booth, yearning for it.  Just as it had fallen into their grasp it was taken away again.  They turned for the door, sulking.  They may have lost this chance, but another day would come when they would be able to rise again and claim the good booth.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  *

            **Author's note:  Well, there you go.  I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.  Please leave a review and tell me what you thought.  I've already got my plan for the next story in this little series of mine so you can expect more relatively soon (and by soon I mean some time next week, I think, I hope).  Anyway, if you have a favorite newsie you would like to see featured in a Good Booth tale, let me know, and I'll see what I can do.  Thank you so much for reading, and a pre-emptive thanks for reviewing.**


	2. Out of Despair

**Disclaimer:**  Unfortunately, I don't own _Newsies_, Disney does, but I wish I did.  I would probably have far too much fun with that . . .

**Author's Note:**  This chapter is dedicated to Quimby, but I don't think it will be what she was expecting (::turns to Quimby:: "but I hope you like it just the same").  Anyway, prepare for a bit of angst,  and enjoy chapter two in the saga of . . . _The Good Booth._

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                        Snipeshooter sighed as he sank farther into the booth.  Tibby's was bustling with people on this cool evening in August, but Snipeshooter sat by himself.  He sighed quietly as he sipped his soda.  The rest of the boys had gone to the Brooklyn L-H for a party of sorts but Snipeshooter had decided to stay behind.  He hadn't been feeling up to a party that night.  Actually, he hadn't been feeling up to being around people in general, lately.  He seemed to be growing more depressed with the passing of each day.  He was lonely.  Sure he was always surrounded by people, and he had friends, but he didn't feel close to anybody.  He felt like nobody understood him, nobody knew him, and he didn't know them either.

                        Snipeshooter stared off into oblivion as he swirled the ice in his glass.  After several minutes, he was pulled from his solitude by a soft voice.

                        "Excuse me?"  When the girl had gained Snipeshooter's attention she continued.  "I'm sorry to disturb you, but would you mind if I sat with you?  There are no other tables."  She stared at Snipeshooter who had a slightely confused look on his face.  Frustrated, she added, "I thought maybe I could sit here, seeing as the booth is so spacious and you're the only one sitting in it."  Snipeshooter snapped out of his trance at the annoyed tone the girl had taken on.

                        "Yeah, sure," he stated flatly, distantly, as he scooted over making space for the girl.  She slid in beside him, looking at him questioningly.

                        "I'm sorry if I interrupted you.  You seemed to be rather occupied with your thoughts," she uttered apologetically.  Snipeshooter didn't lift his gaze from his drink.

                        "It doesn't matter," he responded glumly.

                        "Oh, okay."  The girl watched him with interest.  He was young, 14 maybe.  She felt badly for him.  He seemed so depressed, his eyes were so empty, but at eh same time so filled with emotion.  She wanted to listen to his troubles, to help him solve all of his problems, to comfort him, anything.  She sighed and took a sip of her tea.  This boy didn't seem to want to discuss all that, though, and she didn't want to pry.  She decided to just try to make some small talk.

                        "I'm Catherine, by the way."  She smiled as she extended her hand.

                        "Snipeshooter," he replied as he took her hand and shook it half-heartedly.

                        "Snipeshooter?  That's an interesting name," Catherine responded in an attempt to move the conversation forward.

                        "It's a nick-name.  All newsies have got a nick-name."

                        "Oh, you're a newsie.  What's that like?"  Snipeshooter started at the interest in her voice and he looked at her for the first time.  She was pretty.  She had long, wavy, dark-brown hair and chestnut colored eyes that had and innocent yet knowledgeable quality about them.  She appeared to be at leas 16.  Snipeshooter brightened at the attention she was giving him.

                        "It's not too bad.  It's a hard life, but it's a fine life."  He glanced at her and, noticing the curiosity on her face, decided to embellish.  "Sometimes there's nothing to eat, and the headlines aren't always great, but I always land on my feet.  And there's nobody tellin' ya what ta do or where ta go, or how ta spend ya time and money."

                        "Sounds pretty good."  Catherine smiled softly but her tone had held a hint of unhappiness and longing. 

                        "What about you?"  Snipeshooter stared questioningly at Catherine as he waited for her response.  She let her hand slide across the smooth black table and fall into her lap.  She sank into the cushion and cleared her throat before answering.

                        "Well," she began, not wanting to tell him what she really did, what she really was.  "I work in a burlesque house.  But it's not what you think," she added quickly when she saw his expression.  He looked at her skeptically.  "I work in the kitchen," she explained as she lowered her eyes.  They both knew she was lying, but they both decided to pretend it was the truth.  Neither of them spoke for some time and the awkwardness grew.

                        "So, how is that?"  Snipeshooter tried to cover up the discomfort of the silence with more small-talk.

                        "It's okay," answered Catherine, regaining her composure and confidence as if they had never been lost.  The two continued to chat about subjects that were all rather inconsequential but after and hour or so they had both run out of steam.  They sat silently for a moment before Snipeshooter moved the conversation in a different direction.

                        "Ya, know, I've had more fun in da past hour den I've had in da past month."  He laughed a bit and Catherine smiled at him.

                        "I've had a good time, too.  I _had_noticed you'd seemed to have forgotten whatever it was that had been troubling you."

                        "No, not forgotten, just ignored, but it'll come back later . . . it always does."  Snipeshooter's previous countenance had returned and he became depressed again.  Catherine felt her heart go out to him once more.

                        "If you don't want to talk about it, that's fine, but it would probably do you some good to get it out."  Catherine placed her hand on Snipeshooter's encouragingly.  Snipeshooter stared at her hand on his.  He never talked about his feelings, he was a guy, all of his friends were guys.  If he tried to talk to anyone about something like feelings they would probably laugh in his face.  It was kind of weird, but for some reason, he felt like it was okay and he wanted to tell her about all of the thoughts that had been building up inside of him.

                        He began slowly, unsure of what to say.  He told her everything, though. M about feeling disconnected, about not knowing other people and other people not knowing him, but mostly about feeling like he didn't know himself.  He finished and sank into the comfortable booth, letting the worn cushion mold to his back.  Once he had started it was like opening a flood gate.  Catherine had sat there the whole time, nodding occasionally, but mainly just listening.  Snipeshooter's face reddened a bit.  He was embarrassed about sharing so much with this girl that he barely knew.

                        "Sorry, I guess I kinda talked ya ear off," he apologized.

                        "Don't worry about it."  A short moment of silence passed before she continued.  "Ya know, Snipeshooter, everybody feels like that at one point in their life or another.  I've dealt with those feelings too many times to count."

                        "Really?"

                        "Yeah.  All of your friends, the other newsies, they all probably have felt that way before, too.  I bet if you told one of them what you just told me, they would understand completely.  Then, maybe you would find someone who could really know you, someone who will understand you; a friend you can count on when you need to. . ."  She let her voice drift off as she smiled as Snipeshooter, who smiled back shyly.

                        "I already have found someone," he answered, grabbing her hand and squeezing it.

                        And there they sat, holding hands and smiling at each other, a friendship formed over drinks and a crowded restaurant, a friendship that would last a very long time.  The good booth had brought them together, and nothing could tear their friendship apart.

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**Author's Note:  **Well, there you have it, the second installment.  I guess now would be a good time to clarify, that throughout the fic, each chapter could have any kind of theme, humor, angst, romance, etc. Who knows, maybe even a parody of sorts.  I apologize if you were expecting humor in this chapter, I didn't deliver.  Although, the idea of 14 year-old Snipes hooking up with a 16 year-old prostitute is sort of humorous . . .   ANYWAY, I hope you enjoyed the chapter, actually, I'm dying to find out if you did . . . THAT CAN ONLY MEAN ONE THING . . . . . .  if you don't review . . . I'LL DIE!!!  AHHHHHHHHH  REVIEW!

And now . . . the shout-outs  (there are so few people to shout to . . . ::cries::)

**Quimby**   Wow, thank you, but you are the one who owns, truly.  I'm glad you like the fic and I hope you liked this chapter.  Oddly enough, when I was finished writing it I found I no longer felt an intense hatred toward Snipeshooter, perhaps I should get my head checked, what do you think?  I'm glad I did a good job with the Spot and the fight scene and such.  Thanks for reading and Boo-woop my dear.

**Oberon O'neil**  Haha, thanks.  I'm glad you enjoyed it.  Hope you liked the new chapter . . . speaking of new chapters . . . you should really think about that whole updating thing . . . HAHA, thanks again.

**KP**  Tehe, thanks dear.  It was fun to write.  I checked the word awesomely with the shift F7, it is, in fact, a word.  That was a fun day wasn't it, I'm glad those kinds of things happen to us, it's a fantastic source of inspiration.  I'm aware you are in love with Spot, I'm reminded of it repeatedly every day . . . HAHA global studies with Mr. Man . . . I'm so in love with him, he is FINE!  Gotta love hot student teachers and such. . . anyway, hope ya liked this last chapter.

**Rae Rae  Glad**you liked it sweetheart . . . yes, yes, I love them too.  I can't wait for vacation so we can finally expose you to all those awesome movies you have yet to affiliate yourself with.  Especially HOLES, it is critical that you see it, absolutely critical. . .  anyway . . . I LOVE YOU!!!!!! 

REVIEW ALL!


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